The Picture of Draco Malfoy
by Mireille DeMaupassant
Summary: In 1919, young Draco Malfoy is about to come of age and inherit all that New Orleans has to offer. But will that be enough to satisfy his ever-growing hunger for power? Rated M because I'm sure it'll get there eventually.


**Disclaimer:** I own neither Harry Potter nor The Picture of Dorian Gray.

Chapitre Un

Sweltering. It was the only word that could describe the heat that pressed upon Draco Malfoy's body as he lay stretched across the divan in his mother's drawing room. It was barely eleven and yet he could feel the full force of the rising sun pouring into the room in waves through the french doors that someone had left open in the hope of coaxing in a breeze. Sweat pooled at the base of his neck, glued his shirt to his chest, and made his trousers tight against his thighs. He could even feel some moisture between his toes. But as uncomfortable as Draco was, roasting in that drawing room, he was not going to move. Not if he could help it. He knew it was strange, but laying in that room, nearly suffocating from the stifling heat, knowing he would have to breathe deep—even gasp—for the little bit of air there was and denying himself that, made him feel alive.

He had been this way since he was a child, playing with his friends in the lake on his family's estate; he had always had to jump in from the highest branch, so he could get the best rush as he fell. And when he was in the water, he always stayed under the longest he could before surfacing, so that first gulp of air was the absolute sweetest. Even now, he was coming to that wonderful place; his chest was tightening, his head beginning to float. It wouldn't be long before he would lose his grasp on the room surrounding him, only to thrust himself back into it with one deep breath. Just a few more seconds and-

"Draco, cher, what are you doing skulking in here? It's the hottest room in the house! Why don't you go out for some fresh air?"

Draco released the breath he had been holding in a long sigh. His focus gone, he dropped his arm from where it had been shielding his eyes and turned his head toward the voice. It took a fair amount of blinking to turn the white blur in the doorway into the shape he recognized as his mother, dressed in a gauzy day frock.

"I don't know if you've noticed, Mother," he drawled, "but we live in New Orleans. The air is never fresh."

His mother scoffed. "Even so, that's no reason for you to be wasting all of your time on that chaise. It's not healthy. How about you go into town and run some errands for me."

"Do I look like one of the servants to you?" Draco asked, slightly bothered at being asked to perform tasks that were beneath him.

"No," his mother replied, sounding more cross. "You look like a twenty year old boy in need of some purpose."

Draco had to stop himself from laughing out loud. "I appreciate your concern," he said, turning away from his mother, "but I think I'll pass."

He expected to have the final word on the matter, but his mother's reply came with swift force. "Draco Malfoy, you may be two weeks from manhood but I am still your mother, and you will do as I say."

There it was. The blatant exertion of authority that told Draco all he needed to know. His mother and father had been arguing again, and his mother needed a man she could control. She needed her son.

His exasperation with her turned to pity and before he knew it, he was on his feet. "Of course, Maman Chérie," he said, using his pet name for her as a sign of surrender, "What do you need me to do?"

She eyed him suspiciously for a moment, as she always did, and then conceded to smile. "I need you to pick up some almonds. Your father is having some of his...colleagues over to discuss some business, this afternoon, and I'd like to make some of your Grand-mère Rosier's world famous pralines to serve after lunch."

Her hesitation on the word "colleagues" amused him. "Anything else?"

"No, cher. But don't dawdle while you're out. We eat at two and you know how long it takes to make perfect pralines."

This took Draco by surprise. "We?" he asked.

"Oh yes, your father expects you to be there as well. He wants to expose you to as much business as possible before you join the firm."

Resisting the urge to comment further, he merely nodded. "Yes, mother. I'll be back tout de suite."

"Thank you, Draco. You really are the best son a mother could ask for." She held out her hand. He took it in his own and brought it to his face. As he bent his head down to kiss it, his eyes flicked up to hers and he saw a hint of something dark stir behind them. He smiled and let his lips hover over the back of her hand before pressing them to her skin. The hand twitched just slightly against his mouth and he heard the smallest of sighs escape her.

"A bientôt, Maman Chérie."

As he walked through the halls of his childhood home, he thought about his mother. She was so beautiful and so strong, but when it came to Draco's father, she was as fragile as the porcelain dolls of which she was so fond. That was how she had grown to depend on Draco; he had been fourteen when she had first sought him out for comfort, and ever since then, he had been the only one who could restore her to her vibrant self. He didn't mind the responsibility; he loved his mother, cared deeply about her. As for his father, Draco couldn't say he blamed him. The man was simply a victim of his circumstance. The day Draco realized this was the day he vowed never to fall to the same lot.

His first step beyond the front doors was like walking into a wall of steam. A full minute hadn't passed before he felt the beads of sweat form along his hairline and above his upper lip. He took the steps leading to the lawn two at a time and headed down the long walk, hoping he could make it to the end of the double row of majestic oaks that lined it before the sun did too much damage to his fair complexion. His car was waiting for him, his driver dozing against the side. Without bothering to rouse the man, Draco climbed into the backseat and slammed the door shut. Startled awake by the sound, the driver jumped, ran around the car, and got in.

"Where to, Mr. Malfoy?" the driver asked, straightening his hat.

"Town," Draco answered. "I need to go to Richter's for some almonds."

He saw the driver smile. "Almonds, huh? Your mama makin' somma her famous pralines, sir?" Draco said nothing. "Best damn pralines I ever had. Put my wife's to shame, they did, but don't tell her I said that, otherwise she'll give me such a-"

Draco cut the man off with a sigh of exasperation. "I don't pay you to talk. Just. Drive."

The driver's tone changed immediately. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

Common folk, Draco thought to himself as he lay his head back against the padded leather headrest. He hated breaking in new help. So many of them believed they could speak to their masters any which way they pleased. He often saw it in the streets: maids walking arm in arm with the ladies of their houses, men sharing their tables with their servants, talking, laughing, as if they were friends. It made Draco almost physically ill, made him long for the days that his father used to tell him about. Days when their servitude was expected-mandatory-rather than just a pathetic choice.

The car came to a halt only a few minutes after their departure. "Richter's, Mr. Malfoy, sir."

Draco lifted his head and looked out the car window. The car was parked in front of the shop, a dilapidated little square of a building with a crumbling sign. He opened the car door. "Wait here," he said on his way back into the summer heat.

In a few short steps, he was walking through the door of the self-proclaimed apothecary, wrinkling his nose at the smell that overtook him. The shop was dark, dank, and cramped. Every inch of the walls, save the door through which Draco had just come and the grime coated windows, was covered with shelves that held containers of all shapes and sizes. And on the floor-rows and rows of shelves that reached from the mold dampened wood floor to the water stained ceiling. There was just enough space between most of the rows for one person to walk relatively comfortably, but Draco remembered having to sidle down more than a few of them on his first ever visit. Luckily for him, he knew where he was going this time, so he wouldn't have to risk getting "powdered rat brains" or "beetle dust" on his fine clothing.

He made a beeline to the counter that ran the length of the store. As if on cue, the old man who owned the place came hobbling out of a back closet. Mr. Richter himself. Draco didn't like the man; he smelled of what Draco could only imagine to be death, his clothes were ragged and dirty, and the few teeth he had left were rotted black. What really irked Draco, however, were the man's eyes. They were milky white, indicating that the man was blind, and yet they had a way of trapping Draco in their gaze. It made him feel as though Richter were looking into him, rather than just at him. Even as he spoke to the man now, discomfort rose in Draco like bile.

"I'd like some almonds, Mr. Richter," he said before the old man could greet him. He didn't want to be in this place any longer than he had to. "My mother needs them for a luncheon this afternoon."

The old man gave Draco a smile that both chilled and disgusted him. "Ah, young Master Draco," Richter said, his voice oozing out of his mouth like slime, "what a pleasure it is to once again make your acquaintance. Yes, yes, almonds, of course. For her famous pralines, I gather? Yes, of course. Of course." And, still muttering to himself, he turned and hobbled back into the store closet.

Draco turned his back to the counter, his annoyance that it would certainly take the old man an age to get back with his order etched all over his face.

"You shouldn't make such harsh faces my dear boy," said a breathy voice from within the rows of shelves. Draco started. He searched around him for the source. A woman stepped out from within the shadows, or at least Draco thought it was a woman. She wore what looked like floor length robes, though it was hard to tell because whatever she had on was obscured by layers and layers of shawls. Around her neck were countless strings of beads and on her face were gargantuan spectacles that made her amber eyes at least three times the size of a normal person's. The little of her skin that was visible was dark. Draco wasn't sure whether she was soot blackened or if it was her natural hue. "You'll give yourself lines before it's your time, and you are such a beautiful boy, it would be a tragedy to see this face marred."

Draco was so taken aback by her presence that he remained motionless as she stepped toward him and ran a long-nailed finger along the curve of his cheek. "Wha..." he began, unsure of what he was trying to ask.

"Madame Trelawney," the woman said. "of the Bayou. And you are Draco Malfoy, son of the famed attorney, Lucius Malfoy. You are, no doubt, destined to take up your father's mantle when you come of age, no?"

The woman's enormous eyes held Draco in a trance. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't look away. "I..."

"Well, let me tell you, young Draco, that I have seen your destiny. It diverges into two paths. You may choose to walk the path of your father and his before him, or you may choose to forge a path of your own."

Before Draco could speak, the store closet door behind the counter slammed shut. The trance was broken. He turned around to find Old Man Richter standing before him, smiling his wretched smile and holding out a paper sack.

"Give my best to your dear mother for me, won't you?"

Draco stared at the him for a moment, perplexed by his sudden appearance. Then, he looked back at Madame Trelawney, who said nothing. Without another word he snatched the sack dangling from the man's bony hands, turned on his heel and left the place with as much haste as he could muster while maintaining his dignified manner.

He was temporarily blinded by his sudden return to the summery afternoon but after much blinking he managed to locate his car. The driver had dozed off in the front seat. Draco wrenched the back door open, climbed into the car and slammed the door shut, startling the driver awake for the second time in half an hour.

"Take me home," he demanded, his voice traitorously tremulous with the malaise that coursed through him. The driver, who had taken the quiver in Draco's voice for impatience, pulled the car away from the curb without a word. When they finally stopped in front of the long walk of oak trees, Draco, struck with a sudden inspiration, exited the vehicle and leaned into the driver side window. He was so close to the driver he could see the beads of sweat sitting on the man's dark forehead, smell the stink bleeding into the air from underneath his uniform. "If I ever catch you sleeping on my dime again," he said in a low, threatening voice. The driver's hands tensed around the car wheel and a flicker of glee licked at Draco's insides. "I will make sure you never work again and the only money you ever make comes from between your wife's legs."

He didn't wait for the driver to react before pushing off of the car and heading up the walk, the bounce in his step returned and all traces of his previous disquiet gone.

AN: I've been sitting on this story for a while, not sure of what to do with it. The Picture of Dorian Gray in New Orleans with Harry Potter characters? What possibilities! But, alas, no real plot. Not yet, anyway. Maybe having the added pressure of an audience will motivate me. -Mimi


End file.
